Something Old
by Raha
Summary: The Tenth Doctor regenerates...and then wakes up on the TARDIS with every single past regeneration. But that's not really the interesting bit. The interesting bit is that they've been trapped inside a fairytale. Every fairytale. Okay, kids. This is where things get complicated. Features all Doctors, and quite a lot of companions. First in the Something Series. Cover Art by ElijaVD.
1. Chapter 1

**Doctor Who  
**

**Something Old**

**Chapter One**

"_Even if I change, it feels like dying. Everything I am dies. Some new man goes sauntering away...and I'm dead." _–the Doctor

Of all the ways to die, death by radiation poisoning was definitely _not_ at the top of the Doctor's list. And now it had happened to him _again_. He leaned against the wall, half hidden in shadow, sweat cooling his brow and his two hearts trying to outrun each other.

Everything hurt now. But the faint sound of familiar laughter came from around the corner, easing his mind and his muscles, and for a fleeting moment the agony searing his nerves receded enough to allow him a faint smile as Rose came trundling into his view. She didn't know him now, but she would.

The Doctor's chest heaved, and he tried to bite back an agonized cry, but it tore itself out through his teeth anyway. Rose turned, and saw him.

"You alright, mate?"

The Doctor had to smile. Even before she'd met him, and gone through so much, she was still such a brave little soul. So kind, and compassionate, and not scared in the least of the strange man lurking in the dark.

"Yeah," he managed to reply.

"Too much to drink?" she asked, and he grinned crookedly at the irony.

"Something like that."

"Maybe it's time you went home," she suggested.

A lump rose in his throat, and it was a moment before he could reply. Oh, if only...Home meant so many things now. The TARDIS, waiting patiently around the corner. The empty place in the sky where Gallifrey once twinkled. The little flat just across the road, where for one shining moment, the Doctor had had something like a family...

"Yeah," he said, his voice hollow.

"Anyway, Happy New Year," Rose grinned—that bright, wonderful grin he'd come to know so very well—and she turned to go.

"And you," the Doctor nodded, but he wasn't ready for this moment to end, and he sought for something else to say to her. "What year is this?" He already knew, of course, but he just needed to hold on to her a little longer...just a little longer...

Rose turned again, and cocked a brow at him, smiling incredulously at him. "Blimey, how much have you had?"

"Oh..."

"2005, January the first," Rose went on, spelling it out like she thought he was a bit of an idiot.

"2005," the Doctor repeated, and Rose nodded, her smile indulgently amused.

"Tell you what..." he said, and a spark shone briefly in his dark eyes. "I bet you're gonna have a _really_ great year."

"Yeah?" Rose said.

The Doctor gave her a crooked grin. Rose gave him a considering look, and smiled brightly—one last time—before she turned to run towards her building, pausing at the door to look back at him…and then she was gone.

He was never going to see her again.

His smile died, and the Doctor put his hand against the wall, leaning heavily as he made his slow, painful way back towards the TARDIS. His vision was starting to blur, and his hearts were thundering in his ears now, but he refused to die out here in the middle of the street. Home. He needed to get home first. He needed to reach the TARDIS.

In the back of his mind, the first tremulous notes of Ood song began to resonate. For an instant, he was back on the Ood-Sphere with Donna, crouching in front of a filthy cage while a handful of terrified aliens huddled with their brains in their hands…

Another wave of agony rolled through him, and the Doctor collapsed with a strangled cry. The Ood-song grew louder, stronger, and he struggled to look up through the haze that was his mind, trying to focus while his thoughts scattered like roaches in the light...the regeneration was already starting to take a hold of him, changing the synapses in his brain…

Ood Sigma stood alone in the street, translator in hand.

"We will sing to you, Doctor," he said in a voice programmed to put you at ease. "The universe will sing you to your sleep."

The Doctor closed his eyes as the first notes began to softly sound within his head, haunting and beautiful and so sad. _Vale Decem_...Farewell, Ten. Vaguely, he wondered why an alien song had been written in Latin. Or why it sounded so familiar, even though he knew he'd never heard it before. And yet, even as he listened, the haunting notes began to calm his fraying nerves and drive back the burning beneath his skin. With a singular determination so very unique to this young (but so very ancient) body, the Doctor hauled himself back to his feet and found the strength again to stagger back towards the TARDIS.

A wave of warmth and comfort rushed through his senses as he stepped into his beloved ship. Exhausted, he leaned on the door for a moment, feeling the steady pulse of machinery gently vibrate through his bones. Hearts beating their way out of his chest, he finally pushed away from the door, slipping out of his worn leather coat to keep it from getting damaged during the regeneration. He could feel it building, and looked down at his hand as it began to glow an ethereal gold.

He wasn't ready.

The Doctor moved around the console, half leaning it for support as he punched in coordinates, and watched as the central column slowly rose and fell as the TARDIS flew into orbit around Earth. It didn't matter where he was going, or where his new self would end up—he just wanted to know he was _going._ He could at least start a new adventure, even if he wouldn't get to see it to the end.

It wouldn't be long now. He could feel his body dying all around him, cell by cell by cell. And as the golden light enveloped him, the faces of all those bright, shining companions flickered behind his eyes, like an old home movie playing in his head. A deep well of pride rose up in his chest as he remembered them, every one, and what they had done with their brilliant lives. He was glad he had visited them, glad to have seen them one last time with these eyes...even if they broke his heart.

He wished Rose was here, like she was last time.

He wished _anyone_ was here, Martha or Donna or Sarah or Susan...he'd even take the Brigadier. Because he was dying alone now, and the heartache of it all was eating him from the inside out because _just once _he would have liked to hold on to _someone_...and not have to say goodbye.

Another wave of love swept through his mind from the TARDIS as he sucked in lungful after lungful and tried not to hyperventilate.

"I don't wanna go," he said to her, in a small, choked voice. Not for the first time, he wished she could answer back. Then the world was blazing gold and his spine arched in agony, his head thrown back and his arms spread as a rush of brilliant fire raced up through his medulla oblongata, shattering his mind to pieces—and the last thing he heard, before his soul burned out completely, were those achingly familiar notes singing him to sleep…

.oOo.

"I say, old chap, are you all right?"

The Doctor groaned, and cracked open an eye, grimacing as the world lurched drunkenly sideways. He would have staggered if he weren't lying flat on his back already, and he stayed still for a moment, breathing deeply and blinking up at the domed ceiling. That last regeneration had been a powerful one; he remembered fire, and the distant scream of engines as the console erupted in a shower of sparks. He must have been unconscious for a long time if the TARDIS had already managed to repair herself this much. The time rotor was still, and the lights were dimmed, as they often were when the old girl was preoccupied with…whatever it was she did when she wasn't paying him any attention.

He wondered who he was this time.

But in the next moment, that drifting thought was completely derailed by the man crouching over him with a deeply furrowed brow, and as the Doctor took in his unruly silver hair and prominent beak of a nose he began to think the man looked _very_ familiar…

The Doctor bolted up—so fast the other had to jerk back to avoid getting hit in the jaw—and _stared_. He hadn't seen that face in such a long time, aged and worn and yet, at the same time, still so _very_ young. Something in the Doctor's chest tightened, and his eyes were almost white as he gazed fixedly at the man.

"Hello, there," said the Third Doctor, and offered a friendly hand to shake. "I'm the Doctor."

"What?" the Doctor managed to squeak, taking in the frilled shirt and velvet smoking jacket (blue this time, with extra ruffles), and knew those exact clothes were at that moment gathering dust in the back of the wardrobe. There was no sign of age now; the shirt was crisp and white, the black slacks smartly ironed, the shoes polished and shining.

"Steady on, or you'll pass out again," said a gentle voice, and the Doctor's gaze snapped around to find another past life leaning up against the console, his trainers crossed at the ankles and his hands stuffed into striped trousers, a stick of celery attached to the lapel of his beige cricketer's coat.

The Fifth Doctor gave him a wave and a somewhat rueful smile. The Doctor briefly recalled running into this particular past-life when he'd forgotten to leave his shields up, just before a star-liner named after the _Titanic_ had smashed into the TARDIS. At the time, the Fifth had been temporarily aged from the temporal energies of the time-ram; he was younger now, with fine blonde hair and soft blue eyes.

But something was off. The entire right sleeve of his coat was stained a muddy green, and something about that scratched at the back of the Doctor's mind, like a dog whining to be let in. He might have stopped to think about it, if his brain would stop reeling long enough to think straight at all.

"What?" the Doctor said again.

"Yes, I know, it was a bit disconcerting for us, too," the Third smiled, and kindly helped the Doctor to his feet, his hand hovering near the Doctor's shoulder when he nearly pitched over again.

"Are you sure you're all right?" the Fifth asked, eyeing the Doctor with concern. "You're white as a sheet."

The Doctor gawked at them for a moment, his mouth working in a frantic attempt to say something remotely intelligent, or at least intelligible. But his brain just stuttered and tripped, and finally managed a high-pitched, incredulous, "_What_?"

"Perhaps you ought to sit down," the Fifth advised, pushing him gently towards the well-worn chair near the console. The Doctor dropped into it as if his strings had been cut. Ran his hands through his hair. Stared up at the two Doctors like a gaping fish. Swallowed. Finally, he took a breath, and attempted to string together more than two words.

"But I was just…I didn't leave the shields down again, did I?" he asked, glancing uncertainly towards the console.

"That was the first thing I checked," the Fifth replied, raising his brows in amusement. "Everything's running normally, it seems. Not quite sure how it happened."

"Yes, one minute I'm at UNIT headquarters, and the next thing I know I'm lying on the floor in the kitchen, of all places," the Third said, scratching at his ear and looking quite perturbed. "Five was just waking up when I arrived; we had a devil of a time rousing you. Must have been quite a rough teleport, or transmat, or whatever it was."

"Yes," the Fifth murmured quietly, eying the Doctor critically. "Are you quite sure you're alright?"

"Oh, yeah, I'm always alright," the Doctor replied with a dismissive wave, but it was an automatic response, and he didn't quite meet the Fifth's eyes. "But this is—is—Well, it's brilliant! Course, every time something like this happens the universe nearly ends, but still! _Brilliant_!"

The Doctor bounced to his feet and grabbed the Fifth's shoulders—half out of a desire to make sure he was actually there and not some sort of regeneration-induced hallucination and half because his knees still felt jelly.

"Ohhh, look at you!" he cried. "Able to close that coat again, I see. Knew everything would snap back to normal after that whole time-ram thing. Where are you, then? Nyssa, Tegan, Turlough?"

"Well, I was just with Peri on—"

"Peri!" the Doctor burst out, making the other two jump. "How is she? I saw her recently. Married a lord on Thoros Alpha."

"Did she?" the Fifth grinned. "Always knew that girl had ambition. Good for her."

"Yes, yes, that's all fine and dandy," the Third said impatiently. "But she isn't here with us now, is she? Nor is Sarah, come to think of it. We need to figure out what happened to cause our timelines to cross, and make sure our companions haven't been caught in the middle of it. Is there anything else you can remember? Any hint as to what happened?"

"No, nothing out of the ordinary," the Fifth said, stuffing his hands in his pockets. "Peri and I just made a narrow escape from some drug-runners on Androzani. 1could have sworn I…Doctor? What's the matter? You look as if you're about to pass out again."

"Oh—nothing," the Doctor replied quickly, with a short shake of his head, but he was staring at the Fifth without really seeing him. He was remembering a scorching desert, and his own damnable curiosity that pulled him down into the caves of Androzani, a somewhat petulant Peri trailing along at his heels. He'd told her to be careful, but she'd ended up falling into that sticky nest of cobwebs anyway. Just his luck it'd been poisonous. He'd exposed himself to it trying to get her out, and then they'd been captured and had to run and all the while he could feel the paralytic slowly creeping through his legs…

He hadn't survived.

But if the Fifth remembered it…He should have regenerated. _How could he still be here?_

"Is that all?" the Third prompted.

"I was sure I'd been poisoned," the Fifth murmured. "But…I suppose my system must have been able to handle it. I think I passed out…and then I woke up here. Only Peri was gone."

"Well, that's certainly helpful, isn't it?" the Third remarked dryly.

"Perhaps you can do better," the Fifth suggested with somewhat strained patience.

"Perhaps I can," the Third answered in amusement. "But right now, I'm more interested in your coat."

The Fifth blinked, and glanced down ruefully at his sleeve. "Oh, that."

"Yes, that," the Third smiled. "You look like you've had quite a rough time of it. I think a change of clothes might be on order, and we could all do with a cup of tea. We don't seem to be in any immediate danger at the moment, and if our companions have been pulled into the mix I've no doubt they'll turn up eventually. What do you say?"

"I say you're just changing the subject because you haven't got any answers, either," the Doctor retorted with a crooked grin. The Third harrumphed at him and tugged at his frilled cuffs.

"I say it's a splendid idea," the Fifth interjected before the Third could come up with some kind of retort, and followed him towards the wardrobe. The Doctor blew out a sigh, wishing for a moment that he could return to the days when there seemed to be all the time in the world. Converging timelines, imminent universal collapse, no problem. No need to rush, there was plenty of time to prevent total causal failure—just need a quick change of clothes, and a nice spot of tea first.

He glanced uneasily at the TARDIS scanners, but the other two must have already noticed that their ship didn't seem all that concerned about three Doctors waltzing around in her console room. There were no flashing lights, no alarms, not even the cloister bell. Whatever was happening, it didn't seem to be having any effect whatsoever.

But that didn't mean they weren't in serious trouble. It just meant they didn't know what was coming next.

The Doctor's mouth twisted, and he moved to pick up his coat from where he'd tossed it onto one of the coral support beams, checking the inner pocket for his sonic screwdriver before pulling it around his shoulders. It felt like body armor, and the tension in his chest and shoulders relaxed somewhat, the material swirling behind him as he hurried to catch up with his other selves.

.oOo.

The TARDIS had a clean coat and shirt waiting for him when the Fifth walked into the wardrobe, but he stopped short at the sight of an unfamiliar stranger lying prone beneath the coat stand. Though the odd sinking sensation in his chest told him who it might be. The fellow was dressed in the strangest clothes, which should have been a dead give-away right there, considering his mercurial taste in fashion, but this was pushing it even for him.

It was the coat, really. Who would even _design_ something so obnoxious, much less _wear_ it? The thing was an absolute mess, fabrics and patterns haphazardly thrown together into a mismatched cacophony of clashing colors. The rest of the outfit was just as loud, and demanded nearly as much attention. A red and white plaid vest, bright yellow pinstriped trousers, _orange spats?_ And to top it all off, a red polka-dot sash tied in a bow around his neck.

"Oh, don't tell me…" the Fifth sighed. The Doctor stopped short just behind him, and it took him moment or two to answer.

"Yup," the Doctor replied with a somewhat strangled voice, moving to gently turn the other man onto his back, his fingers searching for the pulse at his throat. "He's alright, just unconscious."

His eyes kept reflexively returning to the full-length mirror patiently standing near the spiral staircase, feeling as if someone had just sucker punched him in the gut. Because it wasn't the newest Doctor that had him so rattled…it was an old one.

_He hadn't changed. _

He'd regenerated, and he hadn't changed. The pale, narrow face gazing back at him in stunned disbelief him belonged to that of his tenth self—still the same dark brown eyes, the same unruly hair, the same everything. It didn't make any sense.

"Who on earth is that?" the Third demanded, staring at the technicolour newcomer.

"I'll give you three guesses," the Doctor replied, cocking a brow. The Third blinked at him for a moment, stared at the man on the floor, and then had to school his features into something that resembled mild surprise at best.

"You aren't serious."

"And why wouldn't he be?" the man on the floor groaned in haughty tones as he pushed himself unsteadily to his feet. "What happened?"

"Which one is he?" the Fifth asked.

The Doctor paused, glancing at him. "Sixth."

_It is not actually possible to choke on your own tongue_, the Fifth reminded himself as he met the gaze of his immediate successor and wondered what sort of drug he'd have to ingest to get in such a state.

The Third must have been wondering the same thing, because he turned to the Fifth and demanded, "What the devil did you do?"

"Me?" the Fifth said defensively. "I'm not the one in the clown suit!"

"Clown suit?" the Sixth Doctor repeated in affronted tones, drawing himself up to his full height. "_Clown suit? _CLOWN SUIT! Why, I'll have you know—"

"Well, you have to admit, that coat of yours _is_ rather garish," said the Fifth, running his hand through his hair and trying to imagine it so short and curly. The man looked like he regularly stuck his fingers in light sockets.

"As if stapling a bit of celery to yours was any better," the Sixth retorted waspishly, straightening his lapels and trying to figure out how in the world he'd gotten there.

"At least _I_ was able to regain a sense of haute couture after regeneration," added a soft Scottish brogue, and the four current Doctors turned to find the Seventh and Fourth Doctors sopping wet in the doorway and shaking out their coats, which were dripping water all over the floor.

"Now see here—!" shouted the Sixth, starting towards the Seventh with a thunderous expression.

"Now, now, settle down," said the Fourth, stepping between the two, and withdrew a white paper bag from his pocket—which happened to be miraculously dry, despite the fact that his clothes were still soaked through. He graciously offered it to the Sixth. "Would you like a jelly baby?"

The Sixth looked at him as if he'd held out a bag of grass-hoppers. "No," he said firmly. "I think this is hardly the time for _sweets_."

The Fourth's eyes almost bugged out of his head at that, and he took a slow step back, staring at the Sixth as if he thought the man was radio-active. "When did I lose a taste for candy?" he demanded, looking quite horrified at the prospect.

"Don't worry he hasn't," the Doctor assured him. "He just likes to pretend he's better than everyone else, that's all."

"And just _who_, may I ask, are _you_?" the Sixth asked with a tight, forced smile.

"Hello, I'm the Doctor," the Doctor grinned.

"Oh, really, that's splendid!" cried the Fourth, clapping him exuberantly on the back while the Sixth scowled sourly.

"See, I told you we weren't the only ones here," said the Seventh as he flapped a white Panama hat through the air in an attempt to dry it out. His messy black hair was in even more disarray than usual, and his wing-tipped shoes squished with every step.

"How right you were. And since when do we have a swimming pool in the library?" the Fourth asked, his voice rich and deep, while his dark blue eyes twinkled from beneath wild brown curls. He proceeded to drip more water onto the floor by wringing out that ridiculously long scarf, and the Doctor briefly wondered how he'd never gotten tripped up on that thing before his brain became occupied with more important things.

Like how a grand total of _five_ past selves were waltzing around the TARDIS like they owned the place. Well...technically, they did, but that was beside the point.

"Would _you_ like a jelly baby?" the Fourth asked him, smiling like the Cheshire Cat.

"Don't mind if I do," the Doctor grinned, reaching for a red one. He'd worry about temporal collapse later; he hadn't had jelly babies in _years._

"As will I," the Seventh said, patting down the pockets of his coat. "I seem to have lost the bag I was carrying...Must have been when they admitted me to that dratted hospital."

"Help yourselves," the Fourth replied, and held the bag out with a large, friendly smile. "I must say, this is quite exciting isn't it? I was always running into myself in my youth, but for some reason or another I missed out in this life."

"I know, it's brilliant, right?" the Doctor replied gleefully, bouncing on the balls of his feet, and grinning like a kid at Christmas. "Just _brilliant_! Well, the universe could collapse at any second, all of time could be erased, but still. Fantastic! I mean, I was sure this would never happen again (well, barring accidents, of course) but here you are! I don't think there's been this many of me in one room since the Tomb of Rassilon. That was a romp, wasn't it? With Tegan and Turlough and Susan and the Brigadier and Sarah—No wait, you were stuck in that time vortex, weren't you? Oh! I saw Sarah again!"

"Did you?" the Fourth said, looking taken aback and a bit like an owl with his eyes bugging out like that, while the Fifth, Sixth, and Seventh perked up with interest. "How is she?"

"Saved the world together. Again. She's got a son, now," the Doctor smiled. "Luke. Had some trouble with the Trickster, last I saw them, but we sorted it."

"Excellent! Good old Sarah," the Fifth said, smiling softly.

"Yes, yes, that's all _quite_ fascinating," said the Sixth with caustic impatience. "But perhaps we ought to get back to the matter at hand, hm? Like figuring out how to return to our proper timelines before the _universe collapses_!"

"Which incarnation were you?" the Fourth asked him. "You and I aren't _too_ close, are we?"

"Why do ask?" the Sixth said in clipped tones.

"Well, you see, you're awfully rude and I'd just like to make sure I don't become you for a good, long time," the Fourth explained, as if this were entirely obvious.

"He's the Sixth, apparently," the Fifth muttered, while his successor spluttered incoherently.

The Fourth raised his brows, and he looked between the Sixth and Fifth with a startled expression, probably wondering how in the world _that_ particular change had ever come to pass. "How in blazes did _that_ happen?" he asked the Fifth, who shrugged a little helplessly.

"If we can get back to the matter at hand," the Sixth finally said through his teeth.

"Certainly," the Fourth said grandly. "It's a good thing I came along, eh?"

"At least you decided to join us this time," the Fifth said dryly.

"You mean that business in the Tomb of Rassilon?" the Fourth replied. "Yes, well, seeing as I was trapped in a time eddy for the duration of that little venture, it was hardly my fault. I'm sure things will go much smoother now that I'm here."

"Smoother?" the Third echoed, sounding a tad incredulous. "As I recall, we managed just fine without—"

"You don't really expect me to believe that, do you?" the Fourth snorted. "Now, before we go any further, I would much prefer to change out of these wet clothes. I'm sure the universe can wait just a little bit longer, and the TARDIS doesn't seem to mind, so it must not be _that_ terribly important. Then I can figure out what's happened this time around, and get us all back to our respective timelines."

"Don't you mean _we'll_ figure out what happened?" the Third asked.

"No," the Fourth said, and swept up the wardrobe's spiral staircase without waiting for an answer, while the Third sputtered indignantly after him. The Seventh let out a put-upon sigh and rolled his eyes towards the ceiling as if seeking patience, before spinning around on his heel like a weathercockerel and following after the scarf-clad Bohemian.


	2. Chapter 2

**Doctor Who**

**Something Old**

**Chapter Two**

A large kettle of tea was waiting for them when the Doctors arrived at the kitchen some fifteen minutes later, and settled comfortably at the table with his hands wrapped appreciatively around a steaming cup, sat the First Doctor.

The Very First.

The old (and yet quite young) man looked up with startled blue eyes, his slashing brows drawn together in an impressive frown. He had been so appropriate, back in those days, dressed in a black frock coat tailored to just the right fit, with a silver vest and dark gray trousers. A black cravat was tied neatly at his throat, and a flowing black cape was draped across the back of his chair. His hair, all silver now, was long and straight and pulled back from his temples to curl slightly behind his ears. He looked to be the oldest, somewhere in his late seventies perhaps, so it was sometimes hard to believe that this was the youngest of them all.

"What are you all doing on my TARDIS?" he demanded, his eyes flashing, and the Doctor's hearts gave a little jump.

"It's you!" he cried. "Oh, brilliant old you! I haven't seen you in _ages_!"

"I am quite sure that you and I have never met," the First retorted, in that testy tone of voice he sometimes used when he had no idea what was going on, and was trying stay in control of things.

"I know, I hardly ever get to cross my own time-line anymore," the Doctor complained, completely oblivious to the disapproving, somewhat alarmed look he was getting now.

"Will someone kindly explain what is going on?" the First demanded, his voice clipped with exasperation. "How did you get on board my ship?"

"Our ship, you mean," the Sixth informed him snidely.

"Let's not argue, shall we?" the Fifth said, shooting the Sixth a recriminatatory look (that went completely ignored) before stepping into view. "Doctor," he said, stuffing his hands in his pockets with a smile. The First blinked in surprise, before his eyes lit with stunned recognition.

"It's you, is it?" he said incredulously. "That polite fellow from the Tomb. But if you're here, then..." The First stopped, and his gaze (growing ever more incredulous) slid first towards the Doctor, then the Seventh, the Fourth, before finally resting—with some difficulty—on the Sixth.

"I see," he said in clipped tones, his voice a bit strangled as he struggled to come to grips with just how inappropriate he was to become. "So it's happened again, has it?"

To give him credit, the only future selves he'd met so far had been the Second, Third and Fifth incarnations, all of whom dressed and acted (somewhat) according to Gallifreyan custom, so the Doctor couldn't really blame him for the shock. Actually, he was taking it a lot better than expected.

"Not to worry, old chap," the Third said cheerfully, though he'd become occupied with something in the large, walk-in kitchen cupboard near the door. "We've sorted things like this before; no doubt we'll do it again. Now come on, get a move on, we can't lie about all day, you know."

"Eh? What's that?" the First asked, half rising from his chair in an attempt to see what was going on. "What have you found?"

The Doctor moved around the kitchen bar and peered over the Third's shoulder, and then had to suppress a smile when he spotted the little man lying flat on his back on the floor, half-buried in old newspapers. The tiny fellow was dressed much the same as the First—in fact, they were almost the same clothes entirely (only far more rumbled and ill-fitted) because he'd never regenerated before, and an entirely new body was just about as much change as he could handle, let alone a new ensemble, thank you very much. Though he had traded in the cravat for a new bow-tie, and he'd come to like that messy beatnik hair-style quite a lot.

The Second Doctor batted the Third away with a groan, scattered newspapers everywhere, and blinked hazy blue eyes up at the man.

"Oh, no, not you again," he groused, pushing himself up and looking at his other self with stern disapproval.

"A pleasure, as always, Doctor," the Third retorted curtly, and straightened his cuffs, looking slightly miffed and not a little affronted.

"I really must stop running into myself like this," the Second continued, ignoring the other's ire, and flapped his hands in agitation. "What in Rassilon's name happened this time? How in the world did I get here?"

"We're not entirely sure," the Third replied, and leaned a hip against the counter. "What's the last thing you remember?"

"Well," the Second began, folding his hands in his lap and turning his eyes towards the ceiling. "I was..." But he stopped, and his thick black brows clicked together in consternation. "You've redecorated again, haven't you?" he asked, gazing appraisingly around at the kitchen before his brows drew together in an impressive frown. "I don't like it."

"Ah...that was me, actually," said the Doctor, looking down at the little man with a somewhat amused expression—like someone watching old home movies and marveling at how young they used to be.

"And who are you?" the Second asked, hopping to his feet like a rubber ball.

"Well, old chap, I'm afraid he's one of us, actually," said the Third, clapping the Second on the back.

"Hello," smiled the Doctor.

"Oh, no, no, no, no, no!" cried the Second, shaking his finger at the Doctor, who blinked at him in bemusement. "I've had quite enough of this, thank you! Running into my future left and right; I won't have it, do you understand? _He's_ bad enough." The Second pointed an accusing finger at the Third, who shot him an indignant look. "So, it was very nice to meet you, but I would like to return to my proper time now, if you don't mind."

"Sorry, but we're not quite sure just what happened…yet," the Fifth informed him politely.

"Why, you're that fellow from Rassilon's Tomb, aren't you?" the Second asked, his thick brows furrowed in worried confusion at the cricketeer. "My giddy aunt, how many of me are here?"

"Ten, apparently, though there might be more seeing as we have thirteen lives," said the Third, though he didn't look pleased at the thought of sharing space with a dozen of himself. "What were you doing before you woke up here?"

"Hmm...Well, the last thing I recall, I was on Gallifrey," the Second replied, but then he stopped again, and his eyes slid to the floor. Everything as so hazy now, but it was coming back. The War Chief, the Time Lords, the Trial...

His own execution.

A shudder slid down the Second's spine, and he let out a deep, shaky breath. He remembered _that_. They had forced him to regenerate. The feel of his own mind slowly starting to..._change_...was not something he would forget any time soon. Absently, he ran a hand through his hair and wondered if it had changed, too...

Wait a minute.

"Oh!" he cried in surprise, jumped to his feet, and scurried over to a large mirror hanging on the wall. Wide blue eyes stared in disbelief back at him. It was the same mop of black hair, the same expressive face, the same everything.

"Oh, this is splendid!" he said, clapping his hands delightedly. "I'm still me!"

"What do you mean?" asked the Third, coming up behind him.

"Well, I had thought that the Time Lords had forced me to regenerate, but it seems something went rather wonderfully wrong," the Second replied with a wide, cheerful smile at himself, quite pleased with the turn of events. "As you can see, I'm the same as ever. I suppose it must not have been my time yet."

"I think you mean, it went rather terribly wrong, I'm afraid," the Third murmured, his mouth setting into a hard line.

"Oh?"

"You've just finished with the War Chief, haven't you?" asked the Seventh, but in his eyes he already knew the answer. "Had to call the Time Lords because you couldn't return all those soldiers to their proper times, correct?"

"Well, yes..."

"I see," the Third said, his face growing serious. "I believe we may be in trouble, then."

"Are we?" asked the Second, his smile falling into the beginnings of a rather impressive frown.

"Yes," the Third replied gravely. "Because I'm afraid it _was_ your time, old chap. You should have regenerated...into _me_."

"Oh, dear," the Second said. "We _are_ in trouble, aren't we?"

"What boggles me is if you _didn't _regenerate—" the Fourth started.

"Then how can I still be here?" the Third finished.

Something cold shivered up the Doctor's spine, and whispered a suspicion into his head. He took a shaky breath, and slowly lowered himself into one of the kitchen chairs. The Fifth had been poisoned, the Seventh said he remembered a hospital, and now this…

"My, my, my. That _is_ quite a problem," the Second intoned, and stuck his hands in his pockets in the hopes that he would find his recorder. But other than the usual odds and ends (a fob pocket watch, a yoyo, some blue string, and bits of lint) he found himself sadly recorder-less. "What do you suppose happened?" he asked, his eyes sweeping around the room. "How did we all end up here?"

"I would guess that we were somehow scooped out of time," the Fifth answered, a slight frown darkening his features. "...Again."

"I think it may be worse than that," the First murmured, his sharp eyes on the Doctor.

"How do you mean?" the Doctor asked, avoiding his gaze, and stuffed his hands into his pockets when he realized they'd been trembling.

"Because, Doctor, my replacement was not the only one who was supposed to have died. I remember my own death, as well," said the First gravely. "As I believe you all do, hm?" His brows rose, and his sharp gaze swept around the room, but no one could meet his eyes. "Am I correct?"

The Doctor stared down at his shoes. He remembered the pain, and the fear, and the gnawing despair as his whole body had begun to glow...and under that, a deep and inescapable loneliness. For once, he hadn't wanted to go...and for a few wonderful moments he'd thought that, somehow, he'd managed to escape it. After all, it had happened before with the Metacrisis, why not again?

Only...that was wrong. Because he _remembered_ regenerating. The feel of his cells slowly rewriting themselves into a complete stranger was not quickly forgotten. And then something else hit his hearts, and they quivered. Maybe it was worse than that. Maybe he hadn't regenerated, after all.

Maybe he had _died._

"Five," the Third said quietly. "You mentioned that you had been poisoned…and that afterwards, you woke up here?"

"…Yes," the Fifth murmured, his eyes darkening as the same realization slowly closed around his hearts. "It was…" His eyes flicked towards the Sixth, and he swallowed. "Spectrox toxemia."

The Sixth's gaze snapped around in shock. "What?" he said sharply.

"I was hoping I might have survived that after all, when I woke up here," the Fifth sighed heavily, his shoulders dropping slightly.

"Yes, I remember," said the Seventh. "I was caught up in some sort of...gang shooting, I suppose, though I'm really not quite sure _what_ happened, exactly. And you," he looked at the Fourth. "You fell from a tower, didn't you? While you were fighting the Master?"

"That's right," the Fourth said pensively. "Broke my leg, if I recall. It's all a bit hazy. Then the next thing I know I'm in the middle of a swimming pool, and I feel perfectly fine."

"At least it was better than what I endured," the Sixth snorted, shaking himself. "A _bang_ on the _head_? Honestly, I ask you…"

"Doctor," the First said gently, resting a hand on the Doctor's shoulder. "Perhaps you can enlighten us, eh?"

The Doctor looked up, and suddenly felt very small at finding himself the center of his own attention, as the others turned inquiring eyes upon him. He took a breath, and faced the First squarely, trying not to feel too inadequate beneath that piercing gaze. "I was told I was going to die," he said.

"Die?" the First repeated. "You didn't regenerate?"

"I thought I had, for a moment…" the Doctor shrugged. "The process started, I recall that much. But…well, there was this prophecy. I guess I just didn't have enough power, in the end."

"Well, it had to happen eventually, I suppose," the Fifth sighed.

"Funny that how we all ended up back on the TARDIS, though…" the Doctor observed. "Wasn't really expecting that one."

"Or perhaps someone didn't want us to go," the Second suggested hopefully. "Another time scoop, pulling us out at the last second?"

"Perhaps…but _how_?" the Seventh replied in frustration. "Extracting us from our time-lines is one thing, but to stop us regenerating? Why bring us to the TARDIS? And where, exactly, is she going?"

"I suggest we all go to the console room and try to discern that for ourselves," said the First with a decisive nod, and rose to lead the way out of the kitchen. He didn't check to see if the others followed him, though he did pause on the stairs in front of the console, his eyes snapping from the gerrymandered controls to the bare coral struts in surprised outrage.

"What in Gallifrey have you done to my TARDIS?" the First shouted.

"Don't look at me, I wouldn't have left it in this condition," the Fourth retorted, running a hand along a coral strut, stripped bare of the white paneling he's grown so accustomed to.

"Yes, I've been meaning to ask that myself," the Fifth said calmly, and cocked his head towards the Doctor. "The last time I saw it like this, I'd thought you just changed the desktop…but it's more than that isn't it? Exactly what happened, Doctor?"

"Oh, well…" the Doctor hedged, feeling distinctly uncomfortable as seven pairs of eyes now turned on him in questioning silence. He couldn't tell them about the Time War…or what it had done to his TARDIS.

"I was wondering that myself, actually," said a quiet voice from behind the console.

The Doctor looked up, and felt his hearts squeeze. The Eighth Doctor stepped quietly from behind the time rotor, one hand trailing absently along the controls. He wore a bottle green velvet frock, and the shoes Grace Holloway had given him. She'd killed his Seventh incarnation in a botched heart surgery—not knowing he'd had two—but neither of them held it against her. She'd only been trying to help, after all.

Yet apart from his shoes, the Eighth had changed much since he'd awoken in a morgue with no memory. Framed with gentle brown curls, his face still retained a trace of the innocent charm he'd once exuded…but his eyes were a different matter. Once vibrant with wonder, they had seen horror beyond description. Those eyes had watched the Time War rage across the cosmos, burning everything to ash. Those eyes had watched his once proud people transform into howling monsters. Those eyes had watched Gallifrey die.

Those eyes were empty now.

And the Doctor found he couldn't hold that cold, expressionless gaze for more than a second before he had to look away. That lifetime had not been a kind one, even if the man had been so, once.

The First gripped the head of his cane with white-knuckled hands, slowly taking in the Eighth's haggard appearance and the awful void in his eyes. The Eighth regarded him steadily, seeming unsurprised to find himself sharing space with several of his own past and future lives (again).

"Who are you?" the First demanded.

"I'm you, of course," the Eighth replied.

"But you…my dear boy, what on earth happened to you?"

"Oh, don't worry about me," the Eighth smiled, glancing down at the controls, running his fingers along the keys of the type-writer as if seeking comfort, or a distraction. "I've had…a bit of a rough time of it lately, that's all. A cup of tea and I'll be right as rain. Although, I am a little confused as to how I got here. This isn't exactly my version of the TARDIS."

"What's the last thing you remember?" the Doctor asked, venturing further into the room.

"Ah, you must be one of my future selves," the Eighth observed, and smiled, though it didn't quite reach his eyes. "So very nice to meet me. Would you like a jelly baby?"

"Yeah, alright," the Doctor replied, watching the other carefully. "Are you sure you're alright?"

"Of course," the Eighth said. "Now, the last thing I remember, I was with Charley. We had just defeated Zagreus, and we were on our way back to our original universe…things get a little hazy after that, I'm afraid. The next thing I know, I'm waking up in the TARDIS. I think I might have gotten a bit lost."

"Well, you always were prone to bouts of amnesia, so no surprise there," the Doctor said, grabbing the Eighth's head without thinking and turning his face different directions, trying to see past the veil in his eyes. "Is that all you can remember?"

"Yes," the Eighth replied slowly, balking as the Doctor brought his nose within inches of his own. "Should there have been more?"

"Perhaps," the Doctor said slowly, peering intently into the others' gaze. "You wouldn't have any memory of regenerating by any chance, would you?"

"Regenerating?" the Eighth repeated, jerking back a little in surprise. "How on earth would I recall something like that?"

"No, I didn't suppose you would," the Doctor sniffed, and finally dropped his hands, much to the Eighth's relief.

"Would someone kindly explain what is going on?" he asked.

"It seems someone, or _something,_ has pulled us out of our respective timelines, at the very moment of our regeneration," the Sixth said. "I was beginning to think that…well, that we'd all _died_, but if you can't remember it, perhaps there's another explanation."

"I don't think so," the Doctor said heavily, scrubbing a hand through his hair and leaning back against the console with a sigh.

"Oh?" the Third said. "Why not?"

"Because I've _never_ been able to remember that regeneration," the Doctor said heavily, shaking his head. "I remember Zagreus, and Charley, and the whole thing with anti-time…we had to go all the way to another _universe_ just to get rid of the stuff. We were just returning home...and then the next thing I knew, I was waking up in the TARDIS, newly regenerated with no one in sight. I have no idea what happened or how I died."

"Wait a minute…are you telling me that was the _end_?" the Eighth asked, a flicker of surprise sparking in his deadened eyes. "But…there was so much left to do."

"You're telling me," the Sixth snorted. "I never got to Blackpool."

"I never saw England win the Ashes…" the Fifth sighed.

"But this can't be the end," the Eighth protested, glancing around the TARDIS console room. "What am I still doing here, if I'm dead? For that matter, what are _you_ all doing here?"

"That's what we came here to find out, my dear fellow," the Second smiled, clasping his hands together. "What has the TARDIS got to say about this?"

"The coordinates are still locked," said the Fifth, approaching the console and tapping the screen. He tugged uselessly at one of the controls, but the ship didn't respond. "I've tried, but I'm afraid nothing works. We're traveling through the vortex, but...it's strange...it's like we're..."

"Going nowhere," finished the Doctor, his somber eyes scanning the readings, only the more he read the less they made sense. The words went all wibbly, like they were trying to evade him somehow, like they didn't want to be understood. Or couldn't be. "...Not even the TARDIS knows."

"Well, that can't be good, can it?" said yet another new voice, this time with a deeply northern accent, and the Doctor turned to find the Ninth (and hopefully last) Doctor standing in the doorway. The Ninth simply smiled blandly as if this sort of thing happened all the time, and he wasn't the least bit surprised at it. Granted, there was a time when this sort of thing _did_ happen quite a lot, but those days were long past. Or so he'd thought, at any rate.

"It's about time you joined the party," the Doctor called cheerfully—or he would have called it cheerfully, if the Sixth hadn't suddenly shouted in alarm and brandished his multicolored umbrella at the man.

"The Valeyard!" he snarled, taking a dramatic fighting stance. "And here I was hoping you wouldn't show your face, villain."

"Aw, no, he's not..." the Doctor moaned, but the Ninth was already striding across the room to yank the umbrella out of the Sixth's hands and rap him smartly over the head with it. The Sixth jumped back with a surprised yelp, and looked up with wide eyes as the Ninth bore down on him with a tight-lipped, deadly smile.

"I don't look anything like the Valeyard, you idiot," he said in a dangerous growl.

"Well, I don't know about that..." the Doctor interjected, and grunted as the Ninth jabbed him in the gut.

"You're not helping," the Ninth snapped.

"Oh...sorry."

"Are you sure he isn't the Valeyard?" the Sixth demanded, absently rubbing at the top of his head while he gave the Ninth a long, suspicious look.

"That was supposed to be our Twelfth incarnation. Besides, that was only one possible future brought into being by the High Council, and we put an end to that," the Doctor reminded. "This is the Ninth. Er...some stuff happened. But he's fine, don't worry."

"You mean...that's going to be _me_ one day?" the Second demanded incredulously, almost hiding behind the Third as he stared across the room at the Ninth. From their darkening expressions, it was a thought his past selves shared. It was a charged moment, as the past looked at the future...and trembled.

"Um, you didn't happen to see any more of us running around back there, did you?" the Doctor asked, more to break the tension than anything else.

"Not that I noticed," the Ninth replied offhandedly, watching the Doctor carefully as he stepped closer. In his eyes it was evident he had already extrapolated who the Doctor was, given the present company, but there was always that sense of disbelief—and in some instances, the vague hope that he was just meeting a future companion, and not a future self—so of course the Ninth had to make sure. "Don't tell me..."

"'Fraid so," the Doctor grinned, rocking back and forth on his heels. "I'm your successor, so to speak."

"Aw, the hair!" the Ninth cried enviously. "Now why couldn't I have hair like that?"

"You will someday," the Doctor grinned cheekily, to which the Ninth crossed his arms and gave him a flat, irritated look.

"At least you aren't ginger..." he muttered. "That would just be cruel."

The Doctor scowled as his predecessor stepped up to the console and glanced around at the rest of his counterparts with hard, scrutinizing eyes. He stood out painfully among the rest, in his blue jeans and crew-cut and black leather jacket. In a way, he really did look like that future, evil version of the Doctor the Sixth had been so worried about. His eyes—considerably softened after meeting a certain Rose Tyler—were still like two chips of ice, and his face was weathered with pain and grief and rage. He was a war veteran, cold steel tempered in the fires of battle (and there were so many even after Gallifrey). On some level the others knew it.

"Hello, there," the Fourth smiled after a frozen moment of silence, and stepped towards his Spartan self with a friendly smile. "Would you like a jelly-baby?"

The Ninth returned his smile, the hard lines of his face softening, and the other Doctors relaxed a little.

"Right then," said the First, thumping his cane in a business-like manner in order to get everyone's attention. "Assuming that we have all finally gathered—and assuming Eleven, Twelve and Thirteen are not somewhere on the TARDIS, although I wouldn't rule out the possibility just yet—I should like to know who all of you are before we move on with anything else. Because there are so many of us this time, we'll go by number to avoid confusion."

"Number One, over here," said the Fourth, grinning toothily as several Doctors shot him irritated looks.

"I meant your _regeneration_ number, if you please," the First corrected with a disapproving frown.

"Oh, well, if we aren't going by looks or talent…" the Fourth shrugged in disinterest. "I'm the Fourth. Though going by number is terribly _boring_. Oh, I've got it! We could use code names!"

"_No_," said the First, and that was the end of it.

"Well, I'm the Second," said the rumpled little scarecrow in the black frock that was far too big for him, clasping his hands before him and smiling with the entirety of his face.

"Third," smiled the dandy detective in the velvet smoking jacket, running his hand through silver curls and looking quite ready for another time-crossing adventure, if his sparkling gray eyes were anything to go by.

"Fifth," said the cricketer, pushing his coat back and stuffing his hands in his pockets, his expression mild and his deep-set eyes weighed down by a grave sort of conscientiousness that had not been felt by any of the Doctors before or after.

"Sixth," said the Doctor with sunshine curls, straightening his clashing lapels and looking as mad as a hatter in that Technicolor coat of his. He lifted his chin with haughty disdain, and his bright green gaze was blunt and brash.

"Seventh," said the puckish little man in the Panama hat, wearing a mustard yellow pullover knitted with red question marks and green zig-zags. His eyes were warm chocolate, but there were secrets in their depths, and riddles on his tongue.

"Eighth," said the princely gentleman with the soft voice from where he was leaning his elbows against the railing. There was a certain innocent charm about his face—but one only had to look into his soft green eyes to find a well of sorrow there.

"Ninth," said the hardened man in the leather coat, his voice rough and gravelly, and his hard eyes were those of a wolf, sharpened with grief. A young girl from Earth had helped him (oh, such a long time ago now) but this Doctor had not lived long enough for the pain to go away.

He probably never would.

"And...I'm the Tenth," said the Doctor, realizing with a start that he really wasn't _the_ Doctor, anymore. With all of his past selves present, he was just another face in a long list of lives...and for a moment his mouth twisted into an unhappy grimace. Inevitably, it always turned into a competition, and no matter what the incarnation, he was always somewhat desperate to show the others that he was The Best Doctor Yet. After all, what was the point of the future, if not to look back at the past and see how far you'd come? And what was the point of the past, if not to look to the future and think you could be better?

But the worst thing about sharing his own company was that he couldn't hold his own hand.

In the end, it was still like being alone.


	3. Chapter 3

**Doctor Who**

**Something Old**

**Chapter Three**

"So, has anyone taken a look outside?" asked the Doctor—no, no, he was the Tenth now, wasn't he? He still needed to get used to that.

"We can't," said the Fifth, peering at the scanners while the Sixth nearly wrenched the jerry-rigged bike pump off the console in an attempt to get the TARDIS to behave. "As far as I can tell, we're still in the vortex. If we open those doors we could be sucked out into space...or worse."

"What in Heaven's name happened to the console?" the Sixth demanded irritably. "A bike pump? A Typewriter? Too lazy to visit a repair shop?"

The look the Ninth shot him closed the Sixth's mouth with an audible snap, before he drew himself up with a huff and crossed his arms—intimidated, but unwilling to show it. The Tenth sighed just a little bit enviously, missing that little something about his past life that caused even the indomitable Sixth to shut up.

"We won't know what's outside until we look, will we?" the Ninth continued, striding confidently towards the doors.

"What are you...? No—wait!" the Fifth cried, almost tripping over his own shoes as he rushed towards the other Doctor in a panic.

"Are you _mad_?!" the First demanded, jumping to his feet in alarm. "We'll all be killed! Come away from there at once!"

"Oh, my giddy aunt!" the Second flustered. "Someone stop him!"

But the Ninth had already seized the door handle and pulled it open—the others braced themselves—and...

"Looks like somebody's bedroom to me," observed the Ninth casually, poking his head outside.

"What?" the Third demanded. "But that's _impossible_. The scanners..."

"Have been known to be wrong on occasion," the Tenth smiled lightly, and gave him a reassuring pat on the shoulder as he strolled casually through the doors, not a little smug that he was the only one not to have panicked. Granted, he was the only one who really knew the Ninth, so it was a bit of an unfair advantage.

As the others exchanged somewhat chagrined looks, the Tenth stood and admired the room he found outside the TARDIS. It must belong to a girl, if all the stuffed animals and bright pastel colors were anything to go by. The cheery wall-paper reminded him of the Fifth's striped trousers, only butter-yellow instead of beige. A canopied four-poster bed stood against the wall opposite the window, covered in a downy patchwork quilt and a small army of toys. Lacy white curtains framed the floor-to-ceiling window-seat, which offered a lovely view of the ocean-side mountains in the distance.

Kites and wind-chimes and carved winged creatures hung from the arched ceiling, sprinkled with fairy lights, and winding among them was a an actual train track. He grinned, and resolved to nail a train track to his own ceiling as he watched the little red engine quietly chug along upside-down. Whoever slept here obviously had an appreciation for books, too, and he was more than a little delighted to find several of his own personal favorites stuffed among what had to be a hundred other titles. Only...

Well, that was odd.

Those books ranged through a number of different times and places, some of them thousands of light-years apart. The only other place he knew of to have such a collection, other than his own, was the Library. Whoever owned these must travel almost as much as he did.

"Where do you suppose we are?" the Third mused aloud, obviously having noticed the same thing. For once, the Tenth was at a loss. It didn't happen very often, and the feeling bubbled in his gut with a kind of nervous giddiness. Nervous, because he didn't know. Giddy, because he _didn't know_.

"Someone open a window," grouched the First, his brows furrowed irritably. "The air is positively stifling."

"You're right, it does feel a bit stuffy in here," the Fifth replied, moving amiably to oblige.

"Oh, my word!" shouted the Second, and several of the Doctors whirled, bracing themselves for whatever creature had been hiding in the closet or was climbing in through the window—"I found a recorder!"

"Oh, is that all?" the Third groused, deflating like a popped balloon and shooting his past self an irritated look.

"What do you mean, 'is that all'?" the Second retorted, clutching the flute to his chest and drawing his brows together in wounded consternation. "Just because you don't have any appreciation for music..."

"I appreciate it just fine, thank you very much," the Third snapped. "It's your butchering of it I can't stand."

"Well, we can't all be musical savants, can we?" the Second practically shouted. "And I don't imagine _you're_ any better at playing than I am!" He was puffing himself up rather comically now in indignant rage, and the Tenth found himself having to bite his tongue to keep from laughing.

"Enough, the both of you!" the First barked, and the two Doctors grudgingly backed away from one another. "Let's find out where we are, hm? Preferably _without_ all this childish bickering."

"Oh, but what's the point of being an adult if you can't be childish now and again, eh?" the Fourth grinned with a conspiratorial wink at the First, who blinked bemusedly back at him, before he swept towards the door with long, confident strides, the tails of his scarf trailing out behind him. "This way, I believe," he said, and led the way into the hall.

They found that the rest of the house, much like the bedroom, was an eclectic collection of things from all over space and time. All the furniture seemed to lean towards the early Victorian era, but the TVs and computers and things all seemed to come from the late 21st century and upwards. The phones were all vintage rotary dials, and in one room a cat-clock hung on the wall, its eyes and tail twitching back and forth. The artwork was another story entirely, and appeared to have been taken from all over, from cave-paintings to contemporary, from Earth to Androzani.

The house itself was enormous. Every room was unique, all showcasing different themes or eras or cultures. Great spiraling staircases snaked their way up and down and sideways, leading to secret rooms or hidden hallways or nowhere at all. There were bookcases disguised as doors, and doors disguised as walls, and walls that were only pretending to be something they weren't. The Tenth had glimpsed a vast library, but he didn't dare step inside, knowing he'd be engrossed in that collection for hours. The Second had found a music room in the west hall, and had to be forcibly dragged away. The Ninth discovered the full-sized movie theater, where someone must have been watching the Looney Tunes, but the seats were left empty now. He paused to watch Daffy Duck get his beak blown off for the umpteenth time, smiling in fond amusement, before he moved on. The Third and Seventh, meanwhile, had found a fully stocked science lab and were studying the multiple experiments set up on the marble tables.

"I'd almost say this place has just about everything," the Fifth commented, stopping to admire the baby grand piano standing in the corner, well-loved and much cared for, by the looks of it. "But I think there's something missing."

"Oh?" said the Second, looking up from his perusal of the neatly shelved collection of vinyl records. He held one of the Beatles' albums in his hands, and was eyeing the record player speculatively, wondering if it would be too terribly rude of him to play it.

"Yes," said the Fifth. "For a house this big, where are all the people? We should have run into _someone_ by now. One of the servants, at the very least."

"Ah," said the Second, with a knowing little grin. "So you noticed that, too. Yes, it is rather strange, isn't it? Especially for this time of day..."

"That's another thing," the Ninth said as he stepped into the music room, followed shortly by the Tenth, and gently tapped the glass face of the grandfather clock standing against the wall. "None of the clocks are working, have you noticed? They've all stopped at the eleventh hour."

"But it's not just the clocks..." the Tenth murmured, moving to stand by the window so he could look out over the town that stretched below. "It's..._time _itself. It's almost like it's just...Well, not _stopped_, exactly, but it's not affecting this house like it should. Can you feel it?"

"I...yes," the Second blinked, surprised he hadn't noticed before. He had always felt the flow of time, just as surely as he felt the wind or the pull of the sea whilst standing in the waves. He could see it in the air if he concentrated, billions of golden particles streaming out in every direction. But now, everything had gone still. Every surface glowed dimly, as if coated in a layer of golden dust.

Time was still.

But that wasn't the reason all the hairs along his arms were standing up. Now that he'd realized what had happened, it was the most obvious thing in the world..._so why hadn__'t he noticed?_

He rubbed unconsciously at his forearm, and shuddered. "My, my, my," he said gravely. "That _is_ peculiar. But it's not quite an _absence_ of time, is it? More like...we've somehow stumbled into the doldrums."

"That's it!" the Tenth cried. "Why didn't we see before? That's why it's so stuffy in here! It's because time has somehow begun to stagnate!"

"That might explain why the TARDIS was acting so strangely," the Ninth mused, crossing his arms over his chest and frowning deeply. "And why we haven't ripped a hole in the universe yet, with so many of us here. Converging timelines don't mean much of anything when time itself has stopped moving."

"But how is it even _possible_?" the Tenth demanded, restlessly pacing across the room, his hair sticking out in all directions from having worriedly run his hands through it so much. "To render a house completely unaffected by time...that is some _fearsome _technology. This place could go on..._indefinitely._ You could live forever in here!"

"Perhaps the town has been affected, as well as the house?" the Third suggested, stepping through the door to join them.

"Eavesdropping on yourself, were you?" the Second asked. "Have I become so suspicious?"

"Nevermind about that," the Third waved him off irritably. "I want to see how large an area we're dealing with. If it's the whole town, we may have a serious problem on our hands."

"Right then, let's go check out the locals," the Tenth grinned, his coat billowing out behind him as he strode off towards the front of the house. "And I'd _really_ like to meet whoever it was that set all this up. Whatever caused this has to be powerful, or it would have ripped apart the causal nexus—_well_, not that it still couldn't, but there's..."

That's when the Tenth pushed open the kitchen door, and what he saw stopped him dead in his tracks.

Blood.

A trail of it was splattered across the floor, leading outside through the door on the other side of the room. At the other end of the trail was a girl. She was a young, pretty little thing barely older than twenty or so, with unruly ginger hair that shone like fire in the dying sunlight. She wore a dress nearly the exact shade as the TARDIS, over a white blouse with multicolored candy-cane stripes, black leggings, and dark blue Converse painted with shining stars—ruined now, because of the blood soaked through her chest and pooling on the floor...

And she was _still alive_. Heaving and choking and sobbing into the kitchen tiles, and he could feel her agony from all the way across the room. It tore his hearts open. A little gray terrier with wiry fur lay near her head, his black nose pressed against her cheek. His ears perked at the Doctors' entrance, and he sat up with a whining growl in his throat, watching them with large, worried black eyes.

For one frozen instant, the Doctors stared in stunned horror, and then all moved at the same time. The Tenth was at the girl's side in a heartbeat, his skin chalk-white, and his throat squeezing, and his hands frantic, at a loss for what to do first. The little dog whined again, and he showed his teeth for a moment—a warning. But he seemed to understand the Tenth didn't mean the girl any harm, and allowed him to touch her.

The Ninth dropped down on her other side, his jaw tight and his eyes dark with fury at whoever had done this. He checked her pulse, which hammered erratically beneath his fingers, and then gingerly tried to turn her over on her back to see the damage. It looked like someone had opened her chest up with a blaster gun. Burns bloomed across her sternum, snaking their way over her shoulders and down her belly.

She looked up at them with startling golden eyes, glazed over with pain and tears, as blood ran from her mouth and nose…

"It's gonna be alright," the Tenth said quietly, laying a gentle hand against her temple to try and calm her mind. "It's okay, I'm the Doctor. We've got you."

Her brows furrowed, and for a brief moment her lashes fluttered as he tried to lull her to sleep—and then her eyes flashed, something snapped in her mind, and he jerked back just as her mental walls came down like a guillotine. A brief pain lanced through his temples at being so forcefully kicked out, and he reeled back on his heels in surprise.

"_What_?" he said, and stared down at the girl in complete, flabbergasted shock. The dog barked, hopping briefly with the force of it, and flashed his teeth again, his feathery brows drawn together angrily.

"What happened?" the Ninth demanded sharply.

"She...she threw me out!" the Tenth cried disbelievingly.

"But...that's impossible," the Ninth replied, shaking his head in bewilderment. "Only a Time Lord has that sort of mental capacity, and she only has one heartbeat..."

"Nevermind that, we need to get her into the TARDIS," the Third said, his voice edged with steel. "Quickly now!"

"Right," said the Ninth, and stooped to scoop the girl into his arms. She fought him, weakly pushing against his chest and beating at his shoulders with small fists.

"No..." she groaned. "_No_. Let...go...I _won't_...!"

"Shh, calm down, it's alright," the Ninth told her as he moved through the house back towards what he assumed to be her bedroom, the terrier trotting briskly at his heels. "It's okay, we're here to help, I promise."

But her panted breaths were turning into panicked sobs, hitching faster and faster until he was afraid she'd start hyperventilating. Her blood was slowly seeping into his shirt and trailing down his legs, and in her eyes there was a jumble of pain and fear and such a crushing grief he almost couldn't bear to meet them.

"What on earth is going on?" the Sixth demanded irritably, emerging from what looked like an aquaponic garden just as the Ninth pushed roughly past him.

"Out of the way!" he barked.

"Ex_cuse_ me, who do you think...Who is _she_?" the Sixth cried, catching sight of the bloodied girl in his future's arms, and nearly tripping over in his hurry to catch up. "What happened?"

"Don't know," the Ninth bit out. "Why don't you make yourself useful and go get the Eighth, alright? We could use his help. He seems to be the best when it comes to telepathy. He might get through to her."

"I think I saw him in the library," the Sixth said, his voice oddly quiet, and his typically disdainful eyes darkening with concern as he turned abruptly on his heel and marched off.

By the time the Ninth arrived in the TARDIS medical bay, news of the injured girl had reached the other Doctors. It wasn't long before all ten of them were gathered in the room, watching grimly from the doorway or standing by the bed. The girl was thrashing, her wild eyes delirious, and despite her injuries she was surprisingly strong for such a little thing.

"Hold her down!" the Tenth shouted as the girl screamed obscenities at them, and took a vicious swing at the Ninth's face, catching him a glancing blow in the jaw. He jerked, and stared down at her in incredulous shock as she tried to aim another punch at him through dazed vision. The Sixth pushed past him and climbed up onto the girl's bed, where he pinned her wrists up over her head and tried to keep her shoulders straight while the Tenth assessed the damage. The Fourth followed his example, and gently settled his weight down on her legs, to stop her from kicking.

"I'm sorry," the Tenth said, brushing a hand over her temple. "I'm so sorry about this, I know it hurts, but I need to see..."

He gingerly unbuttoned her blouse, wincing as the girl clenched her teeth together and arched as the fabric was pulled away from scorched flesh. A strangled whine bubbled up in her throat, and he realized with a stab of compassionate admiration that she was trying not to scream.

"Someone get the med-kit," he said, running his screwdriver across her chest. His blood went cold at the readings, and he swallowed thickly. "I need to try and calm her down. At this rate she could kill herself..."

He moved forward and laid soft hands at her temples, waves of soothing coolness radiating from his fingertips. The girl sucked in a breath, and her vision unfocused just for a moment—and then her gaze snapped up, and her mind struck out at him again in a blind, inexplicable rage. She glared defiantly into his eyes, struggling uselessly against the other Doctors holding her down. The Tenth fought the urge to look away or draw back, struck breathless at the anger and hatred and grief churning inside her head.

"I...can't reach her," he gasped, fighting to keep a hold of her mind as she howled and clawed at him.

Another pair of hands joined his, and he sensed that his Eighth self had moved to the other side of the bed, dark eyes narrowed in concentration as he joined his own consciousness to that of his successor's. Slowly, very slowly, the girl stopped struggling. Her eyes unfocused, but didn't close even with the two of them. Instead, she stared unseeingly up at the ceiling, her chest heaving in short, sharp bursts and her whole body trembling badly. The Ninth let out a breath, and reached for the Biocrisis Reversal Modulator, a device he'd used all too often on his companions' bumps and bruises after a particularly nasty adventure.

The girl's shaking gradually subsided as her skin began to stitch itself back together, slowly closing in from the outer edges, and her breathing evened out as her eyes drifted closed. The Sixth and Fourth eased off of the bed, releasing her. The Fifth shut his eyes and activated the Defabricator, removing her bloodied clothes, before gently tugging the covers up over her.

The Tenth gently pulled out of her mind, and fell back against the adjacent bed, panting as if he'd just run a marathon. The Eighth didn't seem to be doing any better, and actually put his hands on his knees to try and catch his breath.

"She should be fine for now," the Ninth said heavily. "She just needs rest."

The little dog jumped up on the bed next to his mistress and laid his head in her lap, whining softly.

"Good dog," the Ninth murmured, smiling softly and running a hand along the terrier's back. The little dog gave a small wag of his tail in return, but didn't take his eyes off the young girl's face. A red collar was clipped around his neck, and the Ninth reached over to have a look at the tag.

And blinked in surprise.

_Hello_, it read. _My name is K-9._

The Ninth read the tag again, remembering another little dog by that name (although his K-9 had been decidedly less furry) and wondered if it was coincidence. Could be—K-9 wasn't exactly the most original name for a dog—but somehow he doubted it.

"What on earth happened to the poor girl?" the Second asked, wringing his hands. "I didn't see any fire damage, so there couldn't have been an explosion. How did she get such terrible injuries?"

"I doubt it was an accident," the Ninth said, clenching his fists so hard his nails were digging grooves into his palm, but he didn't appear to notice.

"What was it, then?" asked the Third.

The Ninth sucked in a deep breath, and he looked up at them. "Those injuries aren't recent, and they didn't happen suddenly. The Modulator just healed _days_, not minutes."

"But...those burns looked fresh," said the Tenth, looking up from where he'd been holding his head in his hands. Fighting to keep the girl still had given him the beginnings of a migraine. "How can...How can injuries from days ago still be fresh? Unless..."

He stopped s realization hit his hearts, knocking the air from his lungs.

"Oh..." he said softly.

"Yeah," the Ninth muttered.

"Would one of you kindly explain what you're talking about?" the Sixth demanded, his voice somehow managing to be both commanding and petulant at the same time.

"The Modulator works by reversing time," the Tenth answered tonelessly, his face impassive and his eyes distant. "Specifically, the temporal energy around cells and molecules. It can reverse injuries, basically make it so they never happened. Obviously, the longer someone is injured...the longer it takes to reverse the damage."

"I still don't understand," said the Fifth uncertainly. "If she was hurt days ago..."

"No," the Tenth interrupted, his voice harsh and sharp. "She wasn't hurt days ago. I meant someone's been hurting her for _days_."

"You mean...someone was _torturing_ her?" the Second cried, his voice rising to almost a shout. "But that's...that's _monstrous_!"

"Who would _do_ that to a defenseless girl?" the Fourth hissed, his wide eyes nearly white and his teeth practically welded shut his jaw was clenched so hard.

"Not exactly defenseless," the Eighth murmured, rubbing at his temples in an attempt to stave off a head ache. "Her mind, did you feel it? How can a human be so strong, that it took not one but _two_ Time Lords to subdue her?"

"...I don't know," said the Tenth. "But I expect this town has something to do with it."

"Indeed," said the First, drawing himself up and straightening his neck-tie. "Well then, while the young lady recovers, perhaps we should take a look around, hm?"

"Yeah, and maybe we can find the people responsible for doing this," said the Ninth darkly, his rough voice dropping into glacial fury. "I think I'd like a word with them."

He whirled and strode out the med-bay doors with long, purposeful strides, down the hall and through the console room, through the girl's bedroom and along the trail of blood all the way to the kitchen door, which he wrenched open with a forceful jerk—and stopped cold.

Beyond the door was a porch and a swing and three stone steps leading…nowhere. The world just ended. Outside, there was nothing but a white expanse of empty void, without sky nor ground nor up nor down. The Ninth blinked, shut the door, opened it, and looked again. Still nothing.

They were trapped.

"Fantastic," the Ninth said with a mirthless smile.


End file.
